The Myriad Past, It Enters Us And

They Are Travelling Cheaply, With That Touch Of Indolence And Occasional Luxury That Comes Only From Having Real Resources. They Live In Levis And Sunlight. Sometimes They Brush Their Teeth In Streams.

A Light Snow, A Snow So Faint And Small-bodied That It Seems Nothing More Than A Manifestation Of The Cold.

In The War Time Many Of The Publishing Houses Were Privately Owned, A Single Publisher Or A Publisher And A Few Associates Who Were Responsible For Everything. They Could Take Whatever Risks They Wanted, Could Essentially Publish What They Liked According To Their Taste. Publishers Today Are Working For Big Corporations. They Have Different Pressures. I Don't Think They Can Make Decisions Quite As Independently As They Used To Be Able To. They Have More Corporate And Financial Responsibilities Weighing On Them. They're Not Free To Go Broke Or Go To Jail.

One Is Seduced And Battered In Turn. The Result Is Presumably Wisdom. Wisdom! We Are Clinging To Life Like Lizards. Why Is It So Difficult To Assemble Those Things That Really Matter In Life And To Dwell Among Them Only? I Am Referring To Certain Landscapes, Persons, Beasts, Books, Rooms, Meteorological Conditions, Fruits. In Fact, I Insist On It. A Letter Is Like A Poem, It Leaps Into Life And Shows Very Clearly The Marks, Perhaps I Should Say Thumbprints, Of An Unwilling Or Unready Composer.

If You Write Enough, You Begin To Learn To Do Things. But In A Way, You Do Start From Zero Each Time.